


Be My Hero

by allisonsargent



Category: Football RPF
Genre: FC Barcelona, I need to write more of them, M/M, cuteness, honestly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-13 01:04:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4501857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allisonsargent/pseuds/allisonsargent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What's wrong, Marc?” </p><p>“Wrong? N-Nothing, Rafa.” lied Marc, looking down at his hands, surprised to see that one was still enveloped by Rafinha's warm, caramel colored one — it was a beautiful sight, admittedly. </p><p>“Mentiroso!” cried Rafinha, but it wasn't nearly as loud as the two would've guessed, but due to how his voice echoed, he sounded very loud. Rafa pouted, “Why are you lying to me, Marc André?” </p><p>“I'm.. I'm not lying, I'm..” Marc stuttered, since being put on the spot in the way Rafinha was doing now was making Marc nervous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be My Hero

**Author's Note:**

> I love this ship. I love it so much. Please, I need this tag to be more active. I'll try to write lots of fics with them, they're so cute! I hope you all like this, I wrote this in a night, and it's unbeta-ed. So, hopefully there's no major mistakes. Also, if I'm not mistaken. Mein Gott means My God in German, and I feel like Ter would say that in that kind of situation. Then again, who wouldn't, if you were in that kind of close proximity with Rafinha???

The roar of the fans was shockingly loud as the team marched into the stadium, ready to give it all for the fourth time in the past few weeks. The pre season hasn't exactly gone as the team had initially intended, the Blaugrana only winning 1 out of the last 3; Fiorentina was their last competitor of the Champions Cup, and the team still wasn't 100 percent confident in their abilities at the present moment. Even Marc André felt a little shaky.

Standing between the post had always been a position that Marc André had enjoyed, ever since the German had been young. He lived for the rush as a rival charged toward him with the ball, trying to get a ball into the goal. The rush of blocking the ball was even better, almost incomparable to any other experience on the pitch. The thrill of being Barcelona's goalkeeper made it even sweeter every time he blocked a shot, or saved the ball; the crowd screamed his name, he was a _hero_ , _their hero_.

Until the opponent's ball goes past Ter Stegen's body, and reaches the back of the net. The opposite team screams in joy, but nothing measures up to the disappointment that Marc André saw in the fans faces, in his teammates. They were rooting for them, and Ter Stegen let them down.

Seeing the team lose twice in a row hurt, considering that Marc himself had let those balls go into the goal; of course, the defense department as a whole was accountable for the goals, but he just felt like he could've done better.

So, he promised himself he'd do all he could as a goalie to make sure Barcelona won their game against Fiorentina.

Until the third minute, as the defense fell apart slowly, and one of the players in the royal purple kits had the ball, and with some luck, got the ball into the goal. 1-0, in the third minute. A few minutes later, Marc watched as an eerily similar scene rolled out in front of his eyes; the defense crumbled, and nobody blocked the rival played with the ball, and they shot it by the goal. Marc was so close to saving it, the tips of his gloves brushed against the ball, but he just couldn't get a firm grasp on it. 2-0, Fiorentina.

Luckily, Luis scored a few minutes later, and Marc had renewed hope — _maybe Barça would win_ , _maybe this would all be okay_!

The first half rolled by, and the team had several good shots, but no goals. Lucho gave the team a thorough pep talk during half time, and the team walked onto the pitch, ready to score another goal, to win.

Marc André was subbed off on or around the 70th minute, in favor for young Jordi Masip. Marc walked off the pitch sullenly, but the crowd screamed for him, clapping as he was subbed. He didn't deserve the love of the fans, but he had it anyway — and he was eternally grateful.

As he walked off the pitch, he couldn't help but be upset at himself, at his performance. He just wanted to show the team that he could be apart of the team too, that he wanted to stay at Barça. He bit his lip, obviously upset. As he left, he caught eye contact with one of the only people who truly cared — _Rafinha_.

The young Brazilian was staring at the goalkeeper, his face completely and utterly devoid of sentiment. Until he saw Marc staring back at him, and his eyes sort of wandered to Marc's, and Rafa's cheeks heated up. Marc blushed himself, the German turning away from the Brazilian as he seated himself on the bench.

He hated watching the game from the bench, he wanted to be on the pitch, proving his worth, proving his love for Barça. But instead, he watched as the second half rolled by in an agonizingly slow fashion. Fiorentina didn't score again, but neither did Barça.

The game ended 2-1, and even though the team clapped for themselves and their competitors with these plastered on smiles, Marc knew that they were hurting inside. Three losses in a row? They weren't used to this, they were used to winning, celebrating victories. This humbled the team a little, of course, but it still hurt.

The screaming was overwhelmingly loud, and it made Marc's head hurt. He took his Gatorade bottle, taking one prolonged sip before disappearing into the locker room.

“Hey, Ter!” called out a voice from behind him, the only voice that calmed him down even in the slightest in this situation.

Marc André spun around, eyes wide with surprise as he stands face to face with Rafinha. The blinding yellow jersey clung to the Brazilian's body with sweat, and it was slightly distracting. What was also distracting was Rafinha's beautifully tan skin, which the gold practically shimmered in contrast to it — he looked so good in the kit, but in all honesty, Marc André thought the Brazilian looked good in most things.

“Marc André? Earth to Marc?” Rafa asked, as he moved his hand in front of Ter Stegen's face, trying to recapture his attention.

Marc André's cheeks heated up, and for the millionth time, he cursed his awfully pale skin. When he blushed, it was extremely noticeable, and it just made him even more embarrassed. It was a true struggle for him. He looked back at Rafa, “I'm.. _Yeah_! Rafa, hi.”

“Come with me, you need to take a second to chill.” And Rafinha leaned forward to grab Marc André's hand, whose hands were significantly bigger than Rafa's, but the Brazilian didn't seem to mind. Neither did Marc André, coincidentally. Rafinha lead the German to one of the benches in the more secluded area of the locker room, sitting him down, then sitting beside him. Marc simply followed Rafa like a lost puppy, because if he was being totally honest, he had a crush on the Brazilian, and he just wanted to talk to him. He wasn't ashamed of it, really, but he didn't think Rafa would like him, so he kept it inside — like most things, this was no problem. What was a problem though was that every time the two talked, or maybe when by chance their hands accidentally brushed as they picked up the same ball, Marc wanted to scream.

“What's wrong, Marc?”

“Wrong? N-Nothing, Rafa.” lied Marc, looking down at his hands, surprised to see that one was still enveloped by Rafinha's warm, caramel colored one — it was a beautiful sight, admittedly.

“Mentiroso!” cried Rafinha, but it wasn't nearly as loud as the two would've guessed, but due to how his voice echoed, he sounded very loud. Rafa pouted, “Why are you lying to me, Marc André?”

“I'm.. I'm not lying, I'm..” Marc stuttered, since being put on the spot in the way Rafinha was doing now was making Marc nervous. Hence his stuttering, that only made sudden, and random appearances. The German placed his head into his hands, “Three straight. It's my fault, Rafa. I should've — I should've done more, watched the more more. Maybe been a little quicker.”

Marc voiced all his thoughts to the Brazilian, who listened intently, not even interrupting the German once. Marc André felt like he could trust Rafinha, and he wasn't sure why. It was just instinct, and Rafinha just made Marc feel comfortable; secure, even.

“No.” Rafinha shook his head once Marc was done speaking, “Stop that. We didn't play well, okay? It's a team effort, and we didn't do as well as we could've, Ter. It's _not_ your fault.”

“I'm the goalie, Rafa! I'm supposed to play well, and I conceded twice! Twice!” Marc André's voice was rasped from how upset he was, but he had no control over it.

“It's not your fault, Marc. Believe me. I wouldn't lie to you. Ever.” Rafinha's thumb almost absentmindedly moved over the distance of Marc André's hand, and it soothed Marc, “Do you understand? It's not your fault. Stop blaming yourself, and don't be so hard on yourself..”

“I can't help it, Rafa.” Marc whispered sadly.

“Oh, Ter..” Rafinha sighed, not in pity, but something almost similar to it, “C'mere.”

Rafa pulled the goalie into his outstretched arms, and Marc shamelessly settled into a warm position in Rafinha's arms. The Brazilian didn't mind it, rather, he welcomed it. His grip on Marc was tight, and Rafinha moved his hand up and down Marc's back, humming a soft tune into the German's ear.

“Why do you care about how I feel so much?” asked Marc André, in a whispered hush.

“Because. You're my friend, and I like you. So, I care.” Rafinha replied, very casually.

“I l-l-like you too, Rafa.” Of course, Marc wasn't sure if the way Rafa was saying _I like you_ was synonymous to the way Marc was saying it. But, he wouldn't inquire further. He didn't want to ruin the moment; he just wanted to lay here.

“I know you do.”

It was quiet for a few moments, the only sounds Marc heard was Rafa's soft humming, but also his steady heartbeat.

“Do something, Rafa. Tell me something to make me forget, do something.” Marc pleaded, because he wanted to get his mind off the match. Maybe Rafa would tell him a stupid joke, or maybe tell him a short story about the team before he came.

“What do you want me to do?” asked Rafa, his voice low and raspy, which almost sounded seductive, but Marc was sure that was only in his mind, “Sit up.”

Marc André listened to Rafa, and hesitantly moved from Rafinha's arms, looking up into the Brazilian's dark eyes. Rafinha's eyes bore into Marc's, his eyes closely resembling the color of some sort of coffee, and it was lovely, at least to Marc. They were dark and mysterious, and Marc couldn't guess what Rafa was going to do next, because those dark eyes had a mind of their own. Marc's eyes were so brightly blue, and he gets complimented on them countless times in a year, but in reality, he'd love to have dark brown eyes like Rafa's. Or maybe he just loved to stare at them.

Rafa's eyes flickered to Marc's lips quickly, then back up to his eyes, as if he didn't want the German to see his one lapse of weakness. He leaned in, “Tell me how I can help you, Marc, I want to help.”

“I'm.. I'm not sure.. I _just_..” Marc was nervous, Rafa was so so close to him. He usually liked his personal space, but this? No, this was perfectly fine.

This time, when Rafinha's eyes flickered to Marc's lips, he didn't hold any visible regrets, as he leans forward slightly. And in one, fluid motion, Rafinha cups Marc's face with one hand, while capturing their lips together quickly, as if he didn't want Marc to fade away.

The kiss was sweet, nothing overly sensual. Rafinha's grip on Marc André was tight, and the German felt like he was in cloud nine. It was as if they hadn't just lost a game, as if their teammates weren't just in the other room — it was as if it was just the two of them. By just looking at Marc, Rafinha probably knew he was nervous, which is why he took the reins of the kiss.

After awhile, Rafa's lips slipped down from Ter's lips to his throat, where the Brazilian pressed a soft kiss to the base of Marc's throat. He then kissed a beeline back up to the German's lips, where he placed a lingering kiss to Marc's lips that made the goalkeeper shudder.

“ _Mein gott_..” Marc André mutters under his breath, eyes wide is disbelief — did that actually just happen, thought Marc André.

It wasn't until Rafinha reported back with, “Yes it did.” that Marc had voiced his thoughts out loud. He figured this was a better moment than ever to just bite back the bullet, and take the risk of asking Rafa out.

“I.. Okay, Rafa, I really — um, well..” Marc had never been good with his feelings, he always either kept them to himself, or expressed himself in such an open way that it was almost embarrassing; there was no in between, it was one of the other. This time it wasn't the latter, considering he was stuttering, and he felt like his mind was melting.

“Say it, Ter.. It's okay, just tell me.” Rafinha said quietly, nudging the German on encouraging, but also carefully.

“Would you go out with me? I mean, not dating, going out, unless you want that! But, I meant like o-on a d-date. Would you w-want to, maybe?”

And Rafinha looked astonished at the question, almost confused, and this was where Marc André almost freaked out internally. Oh no, maybe he just misinterpreted that whole thing, and Rafinha wasn't into him like that — maybe he just kissed him out of pity, a spur of the moment kind of thing. And Marc just asked him out.

He saw it already, he quite possibly might die of embarrassment — R.I.P. Marc André Ter Stegen 1992-2015.

But, surprisingly, Rafa leaned into Ter Stegen, pressing a kiss to the German's cheek, “I'd actually love that, Marc.” Rafinha stands up from the bench, fluffing up Marc André's hair, making it even more mussed than it had previously been, “I'll pick you up tomorrow at your apartment, at.. Hmm.. 8? How does that sound?”

“Great, got it, 8!”

And with an overly flirtatious wink on Rafinha's part, the Brazilian left, and at this point, the only thing to occupy the German now was his thoughts. He couldn't wipe the smile from his face, “ _Mein gott_.. I _did_ it!”

He got over the asking part — now he just had to get over the _date_.


End file.
